Arsecons

After dissing emoticons in the last post , I fear I’ve made some people coy about using them in future. While I think a world without with emoticons is a fabulous idea, I realize I may have dissuaded folks from ending their netspeak grunts with these trite semaphores of shite.  

So, without any further ado, I present…. Arsecons! Impress your friends and astound your neighbours! Start using them today.

(_!_) a regular arse 

(__!__) a fat arse 

(!) a tight arse 

(_._) a flat arse 

(_*_) a sore arse 

(_x_) kiss my arse 

(_?_) Dumb arse

LOL Fucktards

LOL
I hate netspeak. “LOL” (Laughing Out Loud) particularly is the turd in my martini. By the amount “lol” is used, in conversations that were just harmlessly inane, the writers come across as a snorting chortling fucktard who’s pissed their straitjacket with incontinent mirth. I’d rather read death threats scrawled in shit on a wall.

Emoticons
People who use emoticons remind me of the sort of chunky blonde jolly hockey sticks deb who dots her “i”s with fat little circles, or smiley faces. Emoticons are the inane rubber stamps of language- no, make that the ham-fisted potato prints of the lumpen inarticulate. Why not try actual words? You’ve got a whole keyboard. Use it.

I Have Man Tits

I could never be a woman. If I was, I’d never leave the house. I’d just stand in front of the mirror and play with my breasts all day.

Storm in an B Cup

Having moobs is sadly not quite the same. In the mirror fantasy, I’m a nubile, 18 year-old Alyson Hannigan (above), not a metabolically-challenged 37 year-old in need of an A Cup. With no more exercise than walking the dogs, my body's like a late-model mom’s station wagon that ferries my brain around.

Cherchez La Femme

Before I went out with the P, the Alcoholic Anorexic Sexual Voldemort- She Who Shall Not Be Named- I weighed 80kg and had a body. A damn nice one too; as an ex of mine reluctantly remarked. When I met P, I was brimming with sunshine and confidence. She left me sectioned under the 1983 Mental Health Act.

P treated me like shit, so I responded defiantly by moping on the couch, eating buckets of fried chicken, chain-smoking, and drinking heroic amounts of whatever alcohol was at hand. I got fatter and fatter, until I couldn’t remember the last time we had sex with the light on.

She’s long gone, but I remain on the sofa.

Poo

Aaah. Nothing that first cup of coffee, then blearily treading in fresh dog poo barefoot, and feeling it squidge through your toes. Stankie and I have to have a frank man-to-dog exchange of views.